Secrets Aboard the Starship Enterprise, or, How to Surprise a Vulcan
by displacedtexan
Summary: What is going on? Spock is...curious.


A/N: Much to my dismay, I do not own Star Trek, Paramount, CBS, Viacom, Desilu, Bantam Books, Pocket Books, etc. No, not a single one.

* * *

**Secrets Aboard the Starship Enterprise**

**(**_or,_ **How to Surprise a Vulcan)**

[Set in Reboot Universe]

"Come on, Bones, it'll be fun!"

McCoy snorted. "Fun? Are you and I talking about the same Vulcan?"

Kirk placed both hands on the doctor's shoulders and proffered his best puppy dog eyes. "He's half-human, and growing up on Vulcan—which doesn't exist any more, remember?—he probably never had a birthday party with games, cake and enough fruit juice to drown the flowerbeds a few hours later."

The doctor leaned back and peered at his captain and friend. "How primitive _was_ Iowa?"

"McCoy, weren't you a little boy once?"

"Yes, but I doubt Spock was."

"Now, stop trying to avoid the subject." He wagged a chiding finger. "Uhura spent weeks tracking down a two-hundred-year-old Vulcan chef and managed to sweet-talk some authentic recipes from him. Then Scotty contacted some of his old pals and bartered for most of the ingredients, even substitutions for those we can't get now that the planet's gone."

"You think Montgomery _Scott_ is an appropriate person to judge what similar-tasting foods are? Man, you know whiskey burned his taste buds off decades ago!"

"No, no, I let Chekov research those. He's the one who did the calculations from the Vulcan calendar to let me know the precise day."

"That boy!" McCoy snorted. "Mark my words, someday we'll discover that _he's_ half-Vulcan—with the other half computer!"

"Nah," Kirk shook his head, "he's just a great little overachiever. Of course, the pièce de résistance will be the cake." He rocked back on his heels, face beaming in anticipation.

"What're you looking at me for?" McCoy demanded. "Don't try to tell me that's _my_ contribution. I'm a doctor, not a patissier!"

"No, no, Bones," he assured in a calming tone. "As a matter of fact, it's your medical skills that are needed."

"In case someone's poisoned?" He barked out a laugh. "I can solve that easily—don't serve danged alien food at the party!"

"But Sulu is baking the most magnificent cake!" Kirk leaned forward. "That man is so multi-talented I should probably fear for my job. No, you're going to use your surgical expertise to cut it."

"That's all I have to do?" His voice was skeptical.

"Yep! Just show up and," he waved his hands as if hewing a side of beef, "do your thing."

McCoy rubbed the back of his neck. "Who's gonna fly the ship if we're all at this wing-ding?"

"Oh, the second shift can handle it just fine. I'm limiting this mostly to the primary bridge crew and whoever else who can fit in the ready room."

He grinned widely. "You inviting my nurse?"

"Chapel? You've got to be kidding me. Even _I_ have seen that she has such poor taste in men as to prefer my first officer. I don't want her and Uhura to have a spitting match during the festivities."

"Too bad. A cat fight would make for great entertainment."

"Yeah, but after last month's shore leave, I've been ordered to at least _try_ and maintain discipline. So, I'll count on you being there!" He gave a definitely un-Starfleet-like wave and exited swiftly, calling over his shoulder, "And don't forget to bring a present!"

"Huh?" McCoy's brows met. "How should I know anything about what that pointy-eared bastard likes?" he hollered in the direction which the captain disappeared.

* * *

"I'm stating this right up front," Uhura wagged her finger at the three men in the galley, "I'm not going to get stuck with the cooking just because I'm a woman."

"Nae, who said you were, lassie?" Scott queried. "That's a job for the replicators, isn't it?"

"Being stuck in engineering most of the time has you a little behind on the news, Commander," Sulu informed him.

"I ran a test run with the replicator," Chekov said glumly. "It looked like a wolcano erupted inside and took two hours to ewacuate the smell."

"What do you think happened?" Uhura asked.

"Could be the computer hasn't been programmed with all of the fancy alien cooking techniques," the engineer surmised. "Gimme a few days to tinker with it and I'll have it poppin' out little veggie dishes like you wouldnae believe."

"We don't have a few days," Uhura bit out. "We're going to have to do it the old-fashioned way."

"How sewenteenth century," Chekov muttered.

"You concentrated in technology and only skimmed the social sciences, didn't you, Boy Wonder?" Uhura squinted at the teenager.

Scott scratched his head. "Doin' it this way _is_ rather quaint." He turned to the helmsman, already wearing a chef's toque. "Now, _you_ seem like a handy lad in a kitchen."

"Don't look at me!" Sulu snapped. "I have my hands full with the birthday cake!"

"Back off that attitude, Mister." Uhura reminded him, "_You_ volunteered for the task!"

"What's up wi' that?" Scotty asked. "That should be simple for the replicator, it being Earth food and all." He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "You _are_ planning a normal cake, right?"

"Of course," he answered testily, "but with the design I chose, I need to make it extra dense to sculpt properly. Plus, the decoration will take _hours_."

"Yes, yes, so you're out." Uhura waved a hand at him. "What are your cooking skills, Commander?"

He shook his head ruefully. "I can handle reheating Federation ration packs when the replicator is on the fritz, but that's about it."

"Then you'll be of no use to this project." She gritted her teeth. "When the Captain came up with the plan, I should have expected problems. Even way back in our Academy days he was a pain in the ass."

"Tch!" Scott clicked his tongue at her. "That's no way to speak of your commanding officer. Even if I agree at times," he murmured as an aside. "Say, where is the bonny lad, now that time is short? Shouldn't he be helpin' with the dirty work?"

"No!" Sulu exploded. "There is room for only two bumbling idiots—_and me_—in the single working galley on the ship. Hurry up and decide so I can requisition supplies."

"Ensign…" Uhura turned to him.

Chekov straightened and threw back his shoulders. "Aye, Lieutenant, it will be my wery great pleasure to attempt this challenge."

"I'm sure you're up to it," she smiled at him.

"I can accomplish anything as long as I'm supplied with enough wodka," he assured her.

"Vodka!" The other three cried in unison.

"Laddie," Scott shook his head, "ye be too young to drink."

"Nonsense!" he protested. "I was raised on Mother Russia's mother's milk!"

"During this project," Uhura said sternly, "you shall consider yourself lactose intolerant."

* * *

_First Officer's Log:_

_For the past two weeks, several crew members have exhibited unusual behavior. I have noticed that conversations cut off abruptly when I enter an area. I also suspect that I am being deliberately avoided as I hear retreating footsteps on a regular basis while traversing the ship's corridors . _

_Although I have been unable to ascertain the reason why this is occurring, I have narrowed down the list of possible miscreants to four: Lt. Commander Scott, Lt. Sulu, Lt. Uhura, and Ensign Chekov. Besides the previously described actions and personnel, Dr. McCoy and the Captain have been observing me rather closely with expressions of, I might almost call it, mischievous glee. _

_Were my DNA fully human, I fear I might develop what is colloquially referred to as a 'complex'. Luckily I am able to internalize what some refer to as 'feelings' and refuse to let this disconcert me. I shall, however, be keeping a close watch on the situation in the coming future. _

* * *

"Oh my stars, Chekov, what is that _stench_?" Uhura held her nose as she keyed a panel to turn on the exhaust fan.

"It is this fruit here. What did Mister Scott call it—'gespar'?" The ensign quickly sealed the offensive item into a shrink bag.

"Gespar, gespar," Uhura muttered as her fingers flew across her tricorder. "Ah! Here it is. 'If kept beyond its prime, its odor may be perceived as offensive.' _Offensive_ is an understatement," she declared.

"And I thought durian smelled awful!" Across the small galley, Sulu spoke through a dishtowel which he had fashioned into a mask for the lower half of his face.

"Durian?" queried Chekov.

"An Earth fruit native to southeast Asia. It was once prohibited in public transportation."

"And it's not now?" Uhura asked, eyes still burning.

"Mobile containment fields are stronger than the petro-based bags they once used." He nodded at the bin of fruit. "You might want to check and see if any others are overripe."

"I suggest the commander beam them into space if they are," Chekov proffered.

"Duly noted and approved," Uhura replied tersely.

* * *

"Doctor," Spock greeted him as he entered the medical bay.

"Spock," was the reply. "What can I do for you today? Is it time for your proctology exam already?"

The Vulcan grimaced. "Such a puerile attempt at levity. No, I was wondering if you know the whereabouts of Lt. Uhura, Lt. Sulu and Ensign Chekov."

"Misplaced some of the bridge crew, have you?" McCoy joked as his mind scrambled for a response that would meet the First Officer's logical requirements.

"They are listed on the staff roster as 'Detached Duty'. I fail to see how they can be detached if no shuttlecraft have left the bay."

"Maybe they scrambled their molecules off the ship?" he hazarded.

Spock gave a weary sigh. "No, I checked the transporter log myself, as Mr. Scott also appears to be unavailable."

"Well, gee, Spock, I'd love to help you," McCoy said pseudo-regretfully, "but I haven't the foggiest. Maybe you can ask Jim."

He shook his head. "The captain has been acting secretive lately and was the one who approved this duty. The first officer's input should have been sought for something so out of the ordinary."

"I'm sure there's a simple and 'ordinary' explanation for it," he grinned, "and the captain will likely clue you in on it shortly."

"I hope you are correct, Doctor." Spock nodded in farewell. "I would hate to have to file a report about these activities."

"Dammit!" McCoy swore as the door swooshed closed behind the other. "It's a good thing that B-Day is almost here!"

* * *

"Lieutenant," Chekov turned from the wall monitor, "the computer says that plomeek can be made into either a soup or a tea. How is that possible with the same ingredient?"

"I don't know," Uhura replied, face gleaming from poaching the second batch of gespar in Vulcan brandy. Unfortunately, she had not delved deeply enough into the earlier information and had failed to remove the hard peel. While the result smelled marvelous, its red rind, a common ingredient in soap and perfume, had made the dish inedible.

"It could be a matter of fermentation," Sulu offered as he donned magnification lenses. Bent over the cake, he was meticulously shaving parts of it away.

"Just boil it up and taste it," Uhura said testily. "Depending on the result, they'll either drink it or slurp it."

"Aye, I can do zat," the Russian replied.

* * *

"Are you sure he hasn't logicked it out?" McCoy quizzed Kirk in the turbolift.

"Relax, Bones, I made up some story about them apprenticing in Astrometrics with Lt. Commander Hansen."

The doctor grunted. "I wish you had checked with me before telling such a whopper."

"Why? What's wrong with it?"

"Hansen has been out for the past week with hyperemesis gravidarum."

"Oh, no!" Kirk grabbed his arm. "Why wasn't I informed of this? Is it contagious? Is the ship going to be quarantined?"

Chuckling, he replied, "Not unless you believe that old tale about 'something in the water'." When the captain continued to look at him cluelessly, he snapped, "She's pregnant, you idiot! And with 24-hour morning sickness."

"How should _I_ know what it means?" he groused. "I tend to specialize in _preventing_ that sort of situation."

"I just bet you do," McCoy muttered as he exited through the sliding doors.

* * *

"I thought Wulcans were wegetarians," Chekov commented as Uhura removed the steaming dish from the food replicator.

"So did I," she said as he assisted in the transfer of the heavy dish to the warming pod on the serving table. "Perhaps they don't see snails as any more sentient than plants."

"At least the food replicator was able to help with one dish," the ensign said before Uhura slapped his hand for sampling the sauce.

"That's because Commander Scott was able to modify the escargot recipe to handle jumbo mollusks."

"Out of the way!" barked Sulu as he wheeled the birthday cake to the place of honor.

"Holy Saint Petersburg!" breathed Chekov.

"Ditto," murmured Uhura.

"Even as its creator, I must admit that it is magnificent," stated the helmsman, "and so am I. Are you guys ready?"

"As you can see." She waved a hand to indicate their dishes.

"That krei'la had better be the savory variety," he commented sternly.

"Yes, yes," Uhura replied crossly, "you went on and on about how your birthday cake must be the only sweet dish."

She resumed her previous position next to Chekov. "How do you think it's remaining aloft?" she asked as they bent over and peered at the underside of the cake.

Sulu's masterpiece was a scale model of the Enterprise in edible form and appeared to be flying above the large platter adorned with a starscape. Indeed, they marvelled at Sulu's attention to detail. Gray-colored frosting had been adhered to the cake, tile by tile, in what must have been a marathon decorating session.

"Commander Scott put together some nano anti-grav units for me," he informed them. "They are covered with fondant."

"So the engineer was of more assistance in the kitchen than he claimed!" Uhura quipped.

Sulu grinned. "As long as food preparation was not involved."

Chekov let out a delighted cry and pointed at the saucer section. "There are ewen little blinking lights!"

"No touching!" His hand was shoved away by the weary officer.

"Come on, Pavel." Uhura stood and sniffed her sleeve. "I don't know about you, but I need a sonic shower before I put on my dress uniform."

"Aye, ma'am," he followed her from the galley, "and I still need to wrap my present."

"What did you get him?" she asked.

He grinned smugly. "You'll just have to wait. But I can guarantee that he will greatly appreciate it!"

"Probably not as much as he will mine," she riposted.

"Care to place a wager on that?"

"Will you _please _stop emulating our captain's worst traits?"

* * *

"I do appreciate the kind thoughts of my crewmates," the First Officer stated.

"Don't add a 'but' to that!" McCoy groaned.

"As much as it pains me to disappoint you, Doctor," Spock raised an eyebrow his direction, "I fear I must."

"What's wrong?" Uhura asked. "The food? We did our best to prepare authentic Vulcan cuisine."

"No, Lieutenant," his eyes may have softened as they alit on the Communications Officer, "I have not partaken of such tasty fare since I was last...home." He cleared his throat at the reminder that 'home' was now space dust.

"Come on, Spock," Kirk placed an arm over the Vulcan's shoulders, ignoring the instinctive flinch at unexpected contact, "don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

Mouth quirking slightly, he replied, "Thank goodness I was spared an equine. But while I can, belatedly, appreciate the collusion required for this endeavor, was it necessary to take it to the extent of the obligatory natal anniversary offerings?"

All eyes turned to the table on which the presents were displayed. Indeed, there was a distinct similarity of thought. From Uhura was Leleshwa Sauvignon Blanc from Kenya. An opaque black bottle held sake from Sulu. McCoy had included a potted mint plant with some 'authentic Kentucky bourbon'. Chekov had parted with some of his cherished 'mother's milk', and Scott, of course, provided aged Scotch whisky. In the center, at the place of honor, was a container of glimmering azure liquid.

"You _do_ comprehend, do you not, that alcohol does not affect a Vulcan's physiology in any way?"

"Hold on." McCoy rubbed his temple as if to better absorb the sentence. "Are you saying that you could drink all that," he waved his arm, "and it would not make you the slightest bit inebriated?"

"I fear that is the case." He turned to Kirk. "Also, Captain, as First Officer I must inquire as to your source for Romulan ale."

"That's illegal, isn't it?" asked Uhura.

"Will Mister Spock report him?" Chekov inquired quietly of Scott.

"Nae, laddie, he's teasing the captain," the Scotsman replied.

"How can you tell?" asked Sulu.

"There's a twinkle in his eye, if you look closely in the right light."

"Or with the proper pre-lubrication," Uhura sniffed. "How much did you drink before the party, Commander?"

"Now, it wouldn't be a party if we didn't get a little merry, would it?" he boomed cheerily.

"That's right," Kirk agreed, having silently moved near them. "And since my first officer can't enjoy these presents to the fullest, he shouldn't mind sharing with his friends! Isn't that right, Spock?"

"Be my guest, Captain."

Kirk passed by his bridge officers, nudging Sulu, who leaned into Chekov, who jogged Uhura's hand just enough to spill a few drops of plomeek tea. It was his abysmal luck to step into that small puddle after turning, holding the bottle of ale aloft triumphantly.

His startled yelp was joined by cries from the others as they futilely reached for their flailing superior, especially once they discerned his inevitable target.

"Jim!" "Keptin!" "Sir!" "My cake!"

Sure enough, Kirk face-planted into the amazing confection, which had not yet been served. Although he managed to preserve the bottle of blue spirits, the sugary Enterprise was not so lucky.

Between laughs, Mr. Scott spoke the thoughts of all but the wailing Sulu. "Captain, ye crashed the bloody ship!"

"Indeed," Spock stated with quivering lips, "a most memorable celebration."

* * *

AN: This was awarded third place in a writing contest sponsored by the Starfleet International Fan Association on August 3, 2019.


End file.
